


Paint Me A Picture

by Van_Go



Category: Original Work
Genre: Artists, Horror, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23587288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Van_Go/pseuds/Van_Go
Summary: Grace gives everything to become a better artist and loses herself in the process.





	Paint Me A Picture

Paint Me A Picture 

Grace stared uncomprehending at the elderly woman standing behind the peeling, tan countertop. However, she quickly regained her senses after glimpsing herself in the stranger’s large, square cut glasses. “How much for just the paint?” she asked, her calloused, stained fingers tightening around the meager tip money she earned from her shift at the diner.

“Um...well, let’s see. It will be 34.99 for the whole color set.” Mary, according to the magnetic tag attached to her green vest, smiled sympathetically. “Now, don’t you move. I think I might just have a coupon around here somewhere!” Mary opened and closed several drawers behind her before pulling out a pack of discount tickets. 

“I’ll take the paint...just the paint, for now.” Grace blew out the breath she was holding, before handing over all the money in her hand. She was still a few cents shy of the total, but both women pretended not to notice. “Thank you...um, Mary.” Her gratitude was real but fleeting. Her mind was already wandering to the night ahead. 

“You’re welcome. I didn’t get your name,” Mary replied, but the girl was already on the other side of the clear door. 

Grace held her purchase close to her chest, the tubes clicking together inside the flimsy plastic bag. Just three blocks later and she was walking up the uneven steps to her apartment. Her key slid in without resistance and she opened the door to the dark, empty space. After flipping the switch, the light blinked several times before illuminating the familiar living room slash dining room. It was bare of furniture, but littered with unfinished canvas paintings, ripped up charcoal sketches, pencil shavings and mugs full of dirty water. 

The microwave beeps for the third time before Grace finally pulls out tonight’s dinner. She ate greasy fried chicken from directly out of the take away container. She regrets not opting for the baked rigatoni from work. However, taking a large swig from the cheap bottle of whiskey made her meal go down easier. Sitting criss cross on the floor, her now nearly empty, glass bottle and her full, untouched tubes of colors lay in front of her. She had fruitlessly searched for a scrap of clean, white paper. How could she paint? Perhaps she could pick up an extra shift this week. Try to smile more, like her red faced, potbellied manager suggested. Her fingers stretched as if stiff from lack of movement. She needed to paint tonight, or find more whiskey. 

Her head whipped behind her at the sharp sound of her neighbor slamming a door shut. Or at least she hoped it was the door. She didn’t like to stick her nose in other people’s business. She liked to keep to herself, the only trait she shared with her mother, Temperance. Though some people thought they shared a lot of physical attributes too. This was a kind of compliment for Grace and an insult to Temperance. 

Peering at the thin, white wall that separated apartment number 3 from 4, Grace noticed how bare it looked. Almost like one of her canvases. But if she painted it, wouldn’t she get in some kind of trouble? It could always be painted white again, she reasoned. 

Standing upright, Grace gathered her supplies and refilled a mug with fresh water from the sink. She started mixing colors and sweeping her brush one way and then the other. It was always like this for her. Never knowing the outcome until she stopped, or ran out of paint or space. 

There was a sting in her right side that caused her to shift and wake from her spot on the hard floor. Pushing herself up, Grace found a paintbrush snapped in half which had left a long scratch on her arm. Her blood had turned the bristles a reddish-brown. Her head was hurting as well. The thought that she should consider giving up drinking left as quickly as it came.

Once she had committed to waking, Grace saw herself staring back. She had painted a life-sized self-portrait. It was like looking into a mirror. She was unsure if this was her best or worst piece. 

She pulled her eyes away when she heard the loud, unforgiving beeping from her alarm. It was morning and she needed to hurry or else be late for work. The breakfast shift was the worst. Employees and customers tended to be tired and short on patience and money. Not to mention hungover. 

No time to change, let alone clean up. Grace brushed her teeth with the last remainder of whiskey. She’d need more soon. “Well, I guess this is goodbye for now.” Grace laughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. A quick glance at her cheap, plastic wristwatch and she was rushing out the door. It was dark when she finally returned, picking up a second shift but still short on tips. She must try to make an effort with her appearance, or at least her attitude. 

Walking straight to the fridge and finding it lacking, Grace grabs a stale bag of chips for dinner. She listens to two messages, both debt collectors, and startles to a stop at the sight in front of her. She forgot, almost, about her mural. 

It was eerie how precisely the image matched, from the frizzy, murky brown hair down to her scuffed trainers. She looked homeless, though she had a home. No wonder she never got any good tips. What a mess, she thought. “I’m going to paint over you when I get paid. I’m not a fan of roommates.” Grace’s laughter echoed in the empty room. 

She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. No, wait she can breathe but it feels more like drowning. She chokes on short, shallow sips of air that barely reach her lungs before she spits it back out. Something heavy is pressing her down deep, an unmovable weight over her entire body. It is dark, but her eyes start to adjust and she can see shapes and shadows. Her body is slick with a cold sweat, making goosebumps form and fine hairs stand up. She can’t move her head, but her eyes flick back and forth. After a moment she finds another pair of dark eyes staring back at her before she jerks fully awake and mobile. Her whole body hasn’t felt this tense and sore since her art modeling days when she would have to keep still for hours at a time. Back when she was confident in her mind and body, in the knowledge that she was helping other artists, and that she was, in those moments, art itself. 

Her breath slowed as the adrenaline started to fade but she didn’t know if she could sleep. Grasping at the lamp sitting on her makeshift nightstand, all at once the room became too bright and hurt her eyes. It’s been a long time since she had a nightmare. Maybe it’s because she didn’t have a drink tonight. She would head to the store tomorrow. It was her only vice, beside ink and paper. 

She spent the rest of the night drifting in and out of sleep until her alarm went off. How was she supposed to go back to work? She couldn’t call out, even if she didn’t feel well.. She needed the money. She pulled the sleeve of her coat from an unstable stack of half-completed paintings. As she reached for her purse, Grace saw movement in her peripheral. Her heart thudded in her chest as she remembered her nightmare. It was herself, or rather her image. It seemed to her off center but then she didn’t trust herself. In truth she barely remembered that night. Her nerves were shot. 

Today was a good day, well as good as it could get for someone like her. A drunk couple overtipped her at the restaurant which allowed Grace to buy takeout and liquor. She was almost happy, walking briskly up the cracked concrete steps to apartment number 3. Closing the door and walking straight to the kitchen for an actual glass and metal fork. Grace often borrowed food from work but it was rare that she was able to buy something she wanted. She was warm and full from dinner, before she saw it. Before she realized that her image was missing from the painting. It was impossible. 

Did someone do this? Did she do this but not remember? She was sure that she saw the painting this morning, before work and now it’s gone. Grace poured herself a glass. And then a second and third before facing the empty wall once again. What should she do? Move? She had nowhere else to go. Call the police? And tell them what exactly, that she disappeared. They’d send her to some sort of hospital but then maybe she belonged there. 

After a few minutes she finally noticed something. At the edge of the wall, there were a few smears of brown paint, the exact same shade as her hair. Grace came closer and reached out until her hand touched the plaster. BAM! She almost fell at the sharp snap of a door closing. It must be her neighbor again. Her heart banged against her chest as she pressed her hand against the wall again. It felt odd, almost warm like someone’s body heat after they’ve been sitting a while. But then the heating vent was directly above, so maybe that explained it. Though Grace’s heart refused to slow it’s steady beat. 

For the first time in years, Grace wished for her mother. She could call her but she didn’t know what she would say to her. Temperance would not have the capacity to believe such a story. She only read memoirs and was far from the imaginative, creative type. The only paints she used were cosmetics and even then she always chose the wrong colors for her canvas. It’s one of the many reasons that they only see each on holiday. What would her mother see if she could look at her now? Would she recognize her own daughter? 

Grace went to the bathroom and turned on the water, twisting the knob so that it was scalding hot. She was tired and had been drinking more than usual. That’s why she’s seeing things. Grace’s body turned pink from the soap scrub and hot water. It was a small relief when her feet touched the cool tiles, though the rest of the small room was filled with steam making her feel sticky. Her hand swiped across the mirror above her sink, wiping away a small circle of moisture. She did not see her reflection. Only the towel rack behind her. 

Grace locked her bedroom door for the first time since she moved into this apartment and lay down with the lamplight still on. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she could not find her shadow on the wall. 

After Grace was reported missing, news articles and bloggers would accuse Temperance of being coldhearted. For trying to profit off of her daughter’s artwork. Temperance rather thought it was the buyers who wanted to own these drawings and paintings, even the unfinished ones, that were devoid of feeling. Grace had disappeared but her debt remained. Unpaid rent and overdue student loans were passed to her. Even Grace’s former classmates, her so-called friends, had started selling their sketches and stories. It hurt to know that her daughter’s naked body was hanging on some stranger's wall. Temperance would find it in herself to forgive these things if only she could see her daughter. Not her paintings or her likeness, but Grace in the flesh. 

A year later and people still come in to buy the same paint set that the girl bought before she went missing. Mary shakes her head and does not offer any of them a coupon. In fact, she breathes a little easier when they are on the other side of the glass door.


End file.
